Unhinged
by Rabidnar
Summary: Allison gets more than she bargained for when she decides to help out the law.
1. Chapter 1

Decided to do another 2nd person POV fic. Maybe give you insight to what happens in my head, yes? I have none of the exact disorders portrayed in this fic tho, so I apologize for mistakes. I've done my research and can relate to many symptoms due to my own disorder, but I don't promise perfection. Hopefully I can once again write a dark subject tastefully. Enjoy!

**Disclaimer: **I do not own House or any of the characters.

Beta'd by the lovely Vanamo.

In case you haven't heard, Wilde For World is doing a video project for Olivia. You should all message wfwproject at gmail to get more info and get involved!

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><p><em>Allison's POV:<em>

You haven't showered in over twenty-four hours. It's not the first time you've gone over a day without showering, but in the ninety degree weather with your t-shirt sticking to your damp skin, you feel positively disgusting. You looked fine when you dragged yourself out of bed this morning, but beads of sweat are forming on your forehead and you're sure your hair is stringy and greasy even though there still manages to be several flyaway strands. It's almost embarrassing to be standing in the middle of a park in broad daylight.

"Are you listening?" Kendall taps your arm with the corner of the manila folder he's holding. He's a tall, dark-skinned man, roughly 6'5", with a muscular build that fills out the police uniform he's sporting.

"I really don't know any of this law stuff," you admit, rubbing your arm across your eyes. You allowed yourself two hours of sleep, enough so that you could at least function enough to leave the house. A mixture of stress and needing to look like you've been having a rough time were the cause of that. "I get it, I just…" Your voice trails off. You're a doctor, not a lawyer. Despite that your lawyer and the police involved have repeated the same things for the last four weeks, none of it has really sunk in.

"You're tired," he finishes it for you, letting you off with an excuse. He's not okay that you landed this job. That much is obvious. He respects you though. He's proven that over the past few weeks just by allowing you to do this.

"I put on a good act." You brush your hair away from your face and turn to face him, not bothering to look at the ground in attempt to hide the dark circles under your eyes.

How you got here, you're not entirely sure. It was Cuddy that recommended you. Law enforcement had contacted the hospital in need of a doctor that would be willing, and that just so happened to be you. The last four weeks have been a blur of meetings, planning, and learning exactly what it was like to be diagnosed with severe depression. Working for House didn't make that last one very hard. You smirk internally but remain indifferent on the outside. Teaching yourself to quell your emotions had been harder than you thought it would be.

"That you do," Kendall agrees. He places his hand flat on the back of the red park bench beside the two of you and stares at the people wandering around. The risk of being questioned if you're recognized provides a problem, but he thought you deserved an hour or two outside before being committed to an institution for a week or two. A week if you were lucky, two if judgment was still up in the air. "Ready to go?"

You give a brief nod then suck the rest of your Coca-Cola out of the paper cup you're holding through a straw. You're nervous, but that's a good thing. It's showing your anxiety that may prove to be a challenge. As a doctor, you taught yourself to remain calm and collected. As a crazy person, you now have to teach yourself to be hysterical and open with every feeling welling up inside of you.

Pleasant-view is a long-term inpatient unit. You find the name ironic due to the stories that have been leaking out from behind their closed walls. The reason it seemed to be long-term was due to the fact patients were being withheld proper treatment. It was no wonder when one ran an asylum that contained twenty-five supposedly 'insane' and 'unfit for society' people with rich families who were paying thousands of dollars a year so they wouldn't have to be the ones to deal with what they considered lunatics.

You toss your cup in a nearby trashcan as you follow Kendall back to his police car. He opens the back door for you and ushers you inside, then goes around to get in as you buckle your seatbelt.

After being inspected by the law and social services without them being able to find enough proof to deem the hospital unfit, finding someone to willingly go in as a patient was their next best option. Your heart immediately went out to those patients in need, just as Cuddy seemed to think it would. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back against the seat. As a doctor, feeling this exhausted is nothing new, but it's unfathomable to think there were people who dealt with this on a daily basis. For some people, rest never came. You repeat such thoughts in your head to bring yourself down. The worse you feel, the better you'll fit in. As long as you were aware enough to be functional for the job, you need to look like you belong in such a place.

Kendall has a folder with fake records, mixed up with a few real ones. He puts it on the passenger side seat before he starts the car. Your entire life had been planned out, most of it being realistic until the part where your husband died. You had spent the last few years in a sinking sadness that left you unable to function as a normal person. Showering, eating, and socializing had all become impossible according to the file. You lost your job as head of an ER in Rhode Island then moved to New Jersey to live with your brother, who no longer could care for you after you got arrested for drugs.

The car hits a bump and it snaps you out of the dreamy daze you had managed to drift into. A professional actress probably could have done this job while feeling just fine. You, on the other hand, had to bring yourself down to the level of all the people you would soon be surrounded by. Your stomach is tied in knots.

"Are you sure you can do this?" Kendall asks, almost as if he's reading your thoughts.

"Yes," you let slip out without a second thought. Impulsiveness; you've already got that down now. If you think about it, you might change your mind. Being locked away from society for any extended about of time is no easy choice to make. It almost makes it easier when you realize you're supposed to be being involuntarily committed. No one in the ward was voluntarily committed, as far as you know. Maybe this was almost how it felt for them.

He parks the car outside the long, one story brick building.

You open your eyes. The sign out front hasn't been touched in years. It's dirty and reads as 'P easant iew'. It must be legal for the sign to not be kept up with, because Kendall doesn't comment on it. He gets out of the car and opens the door then pulls you out by your arm. He's not rough, but you know it needs to look like he's forcing you. He gives your arm a light squeeze for some last minute reassurance then leads you toward the front door.

You glance once around the empty parking lot and take in the last minute freedom, that last minute feeling that you can turn back. Once the door opens, you silently kiss freedom and reality goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ang: **Yah? Well, I like it when you review. x3  
><strong>Fracture: <strong>Well, it's based on a few movies. Maybe one rings a bell? Manic, Girl Interrupted, On The Inside...  
><strong>Normal: <strong>Thanks! Hope you continue to like it!  
><strong>Jamie: <strong>Thanks! Hope you continue to read and like it.  
><strong>Lessthan13: <strong>Welcome back! Glad to have you hooked and on board, Matey!  
><strong>A.:<strong> Well, I hope this chapt is less confusing.  
><strong>Esuedros: <strong>Well, Thirteen appears in this chapt. Enjoy!  
><strong>Sheepish: <strong>I'm sorry that you're sick. It's kinda ironic. I started writing it because I was sick, and managed to find an array of people with different health problems along the way. I'm glad my fic could help, even as just a boredom curer for being stuck in bed. I'm horrible at writing original stuff to get published, so unless OW and JMo decide to get together and hire me, you're all stuck with Cadley fics. x3

Hopefully this chapt will be less confusing! Enjoy!

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><p><em>Allison's POV:<em>

The lobby area looks more like a hallway, lacking in width. The length of it is empty aside from multiple folded chairs propped up against the wall. Behind a plastic window on the side sits a plump, middle-aged woman with an overly round face. She adjusts the sign that says 'secretary' by pushing it to the side with her pen. "May I help you?" she asks in a nasally voice.

"Austin Kendall, police and medical security officer," he introduces himself. "I'm here with Allison Ford."

You fidget. Getting used to a last name that isn't your own will take some getting used to, and you panic you might accidentally slip up.

"Oh." There's a hint of disappointment in the secretary's voice and she glances to the side, apparently just now noticing you. "Wait one second and I'll get a nurse." She pushes her chair back and stands then hobbles out of the small office.

You absently scratch your arm and silently scan the room and as much as you can see of the inside of the office. A sign labeled 'Visiting Hours' catches your eye, but it's on the far side of the office and most of the print is too small to read.

"Four to six, every day," Kendall states, not so much reading it as reciting it by memory from your meetings. "I'll be back in three days."

You nod. It's already been decided that any of your friends or family visiting would be too much of a risk. Your heart aches, being unable to have any contact with your child for at least a week, but he seemed quite thrilled that Chase was allowing him to stay over.

A door next to the office swings open and a man dressed in blue scrubs walks out. "Nurse Emery," he introduces himself immediately, reaching to shake Kendall's hand and then your own. "I'll be your nurse on the first shift every day," he explains. "You'll meet the other two as they come in."

You purse your lips together and force a polite smile.

"She's a quiet one," Emery states. "That's always a nice change from the usual." He steps out of the way and holds the door open with his foot as he ushers you two through it and into another hall. It has three doors, one of which you assume leads to the secretary's office.

Emery pushes a door open to your right. "This is the exam room," he says, standing out of the way again as you and Kendall walk inside. "Hopefully this is the only time you'll see this place until you leave." He shuts the door once he walks in then kneels down beside a cabinet.

You give the room a quick once over. It's nothing special, just a typical exam room you'd expect to see in a hospital. You're not sure what you were expecting. They're under investigation for neglect and maltreatment; it's not like you're in Saw and about to be put in a death trap.

Emery stands up straight and holds out a hospital gown, robe without a rope, and socks with grips on the bottom. "Everything off but your underwear," he commands and nods to a bathroom that's hidden by nothing but a sea-green curtain. "You can leave your clothes, shoes, and any possessions in the corner."

"Alright." You take the clothes from him and slip behind the curtain then pull it closed. For a moment, you thought they might watch you change. The privacy calms your nerves a bit. Not paying much attention to the conversation Emery and Kendall begin having about previous hospital stays and your psychological assessments, you take your clothes and shoes off, folding your shirt and pants before laying them neatly in the corner. After a moment of staring at them, you pick them up and unfold them then toss them back down, attempting to seem careless.

The hospital gown is at least a size too big. You slip it on and tie it behind you as tight as possible before also putting on the robe so your backside isn't visible. You balance yourself with your elbow on the edge of the sink as you put on the socks. Once you're content that you're fully covered by the hospital gown, you push the curtain open again and slowly walk out.

Emery glances at you and pats the exam table. "I can take her from here," he tells Kendall. "The secretary will give you a few papers to fill out before you leave."

Kendall nods. "Take care," he says. He gives you a hopeful smile then turns and exits the room.

You puff out your cheeks as you exhale and hoist yourself up onto the exam table. "Don't I have to fill out papers too?" you ask, your voice wavering. You're not sure if you're more nervous about ruining the investigation or staying what feels like utterly alone in an asylum.

"Someone from the treatment team will give you assessment papers tonight or tomorrow," Emery answers. He takes your blood pressure and feels your pulse before pulling a drawer open and grabbing a needle. "Blood tests are mandatory to rule out anything not psychological that could cause your symptoms."

You cross your arms as he uncaps the needle. "You're not going to clean my arm first?" you question, keeping your eyes focused on the needle.

He pauses before realization seems to sink in. "I'm so sorry." He grabs the sanitizing wipe from the drawer. "My mistake; thank you so much for reminding me."

One strike against them already. Clenching your jaw again, you hold out your arm and allow him to use the wipe on your skin in the crook of your arm. "Ow." You frown and tug your arm as he tries to insert the needle, clearly missing your vein. It's no wonder considering he hasn't even banded your arm with a tourniquet.

"Hold still." He pulls your arm back toward him and tries again, still not managing to hit a vein.

You yank your arm back, already dreading the bruising that's going to be there later. "I worked in an ER," you remind him. Even if it's not the truth, you still know how to draw blood. "You're not doing it right."

"Egotistical wasn't mentions on your chart." Emery pulls your arm forward once again, this time managing to get it right.

You gape for a moment then turn your head away. "An F in drawing blood probably wasn't mentioned on your certification either," you mumble purposefully, almost instigating conflict. Under different circumstances, something so rude would have stayed in your head. Even given a chance to say whatever you're thinking isn't necessary, but you're curious of what his reaction would be to someone who couldn't help but say such things.

He finishes filling several tubes of blood without a word then roughly yanks the needle out from under your skin. Not bothering with a bandage, he pulls your down off the table and gives you a nudge toward the scale. "Height and weight," he demands, "Now."

You press your thumb to the miniscule hole in your arm and apply pressure as you step up onto the scale. _105lb. _

"You starve yourself?" Emery asks, grabbing a clipboard. He marks down your weight then proceeds to fill out your blood pressure information.

"W-what?" you stammer. "No." You quickly shake your head. Sure, you don't eat as much as you should, but you wouldn't consider yourself to have an eating disorder. Not to mention the stress of the previous few weeks had caused your appetite to decline.

"Make yourself vomit after you eat?" he inquires.

You furrow your brows. "Of course not," you reply, a little put off by the questions. You chock it off to exhaustion and anxiety. "Everything you need to know about me is listed in my chart. There's nothing else."

"Uh huh." Emery grabs the measurer and lifts it up then adjusts it to check your height. "Sweetheart, there's no way you're 5'5" and weigh 105 pounds without something going on there."

"My name is Allison." You step back down off the scale and try to get a look at the notes he's scribbling down on his clipboard. His handwriting is illegible and he's tilting the paper at an angle away from you.

He puts the clipboard down then lifts the earpieces of his stethoscope up to his ears. He presses the stethoscope to your chest, just above where the hem of your gown falls to. "Heart rate's a little fast," he says. "Maybe some Ativan would help."

"I don't need any drugs," you answer. "I'm fine."

"Turn around." He places his hands on your shoulders and spins you in a circle, causing you to almost trip over your own feet. The back of the robe is lifted up and you feel a breeze on your backside. Your cheeks turn a light shade of crimson and you quickly reach behind you, holding the lower half of the gown together. If he was a little more professional, it wouldn't bother you, but now it does. "Deep breath in," he commands.

You suck in a breath then follow his instructions to let it out again. After repeating the process four more times, he finally lets the back of your robe drop then grabs his clipboard again.

"There will be a folder on your bed," he says as he opens the door again. "It will contain the rules and your schedule. I trust you'll make an effort to ask your roommate to show you around."

You step back out into the hall and follow him to another door. He presses a button on a speaker beside the wall. "This is Emery," he speaks at the small black box. "Hit the lock." A small light above the door turns green and he pushes the door open.

You follow him into the central part of the building, the lounge. Several people are curled up on chair, staring up at a TV hanging from the wall and a few more are sitting at tables in the dining area talking. Off to your right, is a plastic window that's a great deal larger than the one the secretary sat behind. Several nurses and doctors are seated behind it, chatting. It almost reminds you of the time you joined your son for recess at his school, with the teachers standing a distance away but still keeping a close watch on all the kids.

"That way is the men's corridor," Emery says, pointing to the left. "You are not permitted there for any reason, understand?"

You nod and follow him to the right, which you logically assume that's where the women stay. The hall has four doors on either side, all of which are wide open. He stops outside the second door on the right. "This is your room." He makes a slight hand movement before turning and walking away.

You almost feel abandoned, unsure of what to do with yourself. Swallowing thickly, you turn and walk into the room, almost expecting your roommate to be curled up in front of the TV with the others. She's not.

She's sitting cross-legged on the floor with a deck of cards all spread out in front of her, playing solitaire. She flips a card over then rubs her hand up and down her face before running her fingers through her frizzy hair.

You quietly clear your throat and step further into the room.

Her head snaps up and she stares at you for a moment before smiling warmly. "Hi," she says quietly. She glances at the empty bed for a moment before back at you again, her eyes lighting up a bit at the sight of her new roommate.

"Hi," you mumble, also glancing over at the bed with the folder on it. It has a white pillow without a pillowcase and a thin blue blanket on top of it. The other bed in the room is identical, only the folder is on a small table between the beds. The walls and floor are so white, it's almost painful to look at them. Fortunately, the furniture and brown closet door provide a contrast. "I'm Allison."

She itches at a red spot on her arm for a moment before flipping another card over. "Remy," she introduces herself.


End file.
